


dust and the cosms

by Emeka



Category: Baroque (Video Games)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21519679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: Uneasy sleeping together.
Relationships: Archangel/Protagonist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	dust and the cosms

He is awake, watching the blue shadows creep around the room. They don't frighten him, though he is young enough to believe in such things. It's just the passage of time. Each second his heart beats and they creep a little bit more. Soon it will be morning and he'll have spent the entire night awake. He handles it well. 

His eyes keep trained on the wall the entire time, ignoring the man still sleeping away beside him, even as the room fills with more light, turning into more of a purplish color. Then soon, orange, yellow, and he'll yawn in time with him and pretend to wake. 

Until then all he can do is breathe.

The reason he keeps ending up here... he's run it through his head over and over, attempting to ignore the one thing that wants to come up. The moment he had woken up in that bed alone he sought someone else to live for. Another big brother. He and the Archangel did not have that friendly of a relationship but his confidence was comforting, and he did not push him away when he followed. A bond like that should have been enough to tide him over but one night up led to dinner together in the Archangel's room, and when he touched him, he closed his eyes and went along with the flow.

Yes, that's all. His personality is that of a very docile little brother. Old habits die hard. And however he might think of the Archangel, they're not family. It doesn't mean anything about him, or his feelings.

He sighs soundlessly, legs restlessly rubbing together, and wonders without thought. This feeling dragging down his mind is dissatisfaction, but he's not sure what with. Awareness without contemplation. Better he not know. What could he even do with it?

The question irritates him (knowing the answer to be almost certainly 'nothing') and his eyes slide off the wall without trying. The Archangel sleeps beside him with the soft 'su-su-su-' of sleep, breath not quite hissing between his teeth, as purple as the walls. His back is to him. It always is once they sleep but that too is not really worth questioning. Deep insight into a substitute's character or feelings for him aren't necessary.

There is something else that draws him to him though, beyond his need for a brother. It is perhaps the only thing he liked about the Archangel for his own sake more than any kind of reminder, and he can smell it now, even beneath the lingering sweat and body heat. 

Something old and pleasant, like the faded yellow corners of books.

He inhales deep and scoots a little closer so that he can smell it better, thinking of the Order's old collection of texts and books, dusty but friendly, completely new from the clean parchment and sharp ink he knew attached to his brother. It seemed like to embrace him in nostalgia for something he has never known. All those stories and documents, written by hands he has never known, many brought in from a world he will never see.

Once he is so close, there is so little room for his arms in front of him that for the first time, he creeps them around the Archangel's waist. Even in the blankets, even together, his skin feels slightly chill. But more importantly he is now nose-to-skin with his back and breathes in, then just enough out to breathe in again. He nuzzles his forehead into his spine, eyes half-closing to the sight of the knobs in his spine and barely visible peach hairs. In, out, their ribs expanding in time. Feel embraced and lost in something else bigger than himself, for once blissfully unimportant and small and absent of his own consciousness. Just don't exist. There are a thousand tales bigger than yours, waiting, if you will open the pages. Yes. That is what this smell is and for the both of them, he supposes there is nothing more perfect.


End file.
